


On the Fifteenth

by SunflowerSupreme



Series: The Witcher and the Whore [6]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Racism, Sex Work, Sex Worker Jaskier | Dandelion, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:40:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27219562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunflowerSupreme/pseuds/SunflowerSupreme
Summary: Geralt himself often forgot that his friend wasn’t entirely human, until he was painfully reminded, either by seeing Dandelion’s brand or by some other means.Whumptober Day 16: Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: The Witcher and the Whore [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1928341
Comments: 18
Kudos: 156





	On the Fifteenth

**Author's Note:**

> -cracks knuckles- Who's ready for some world building???

Geralt grew to enjoy Dandelion’s presence. Not just in bed, but in general. He took to visiting at least once a week, even when he wasn’t interested in attempting to have sex, and paying for the whole night. They would sit and laugh and talk in Dandelion’s room or slip out and wander the city. Dandelion seemed to know every inn and tavern, always knowing when an event was happening or where to get the best food.

They played human together. Dandelion treating Geralt as though he were nothing special, just an ordinary person, and Geralt’s presence ensuring that no one could turn Dandelion away for being a half-elf.

Geralt himself often forgot that his friend wasn’t entirely human, until he was painfully reminded, either by seeing Dandelion’s brand or by some other means.

Geralt hated the fifteen of the month.

Whenever possible, he tried not to be around for it, or to stay in his house. But sometimes he forgot what day it was, and he found himself accidentally wandering to the Courthouse Square during the non-human tax collection.

 _Pay the tax in coin or blood_ , that was the cry of the king’s men as they rounded up all the registered non-humans. It wasn’t a terribly stiff tax, just enough that most people could pay it. If they paid half the tax, they could go home after the whipping, if they didn’t pay any, they’d be kept in the stocks over night.

Judging by the line up, only a small handful had failed on that day.

Geralt was about to turn his back and leave when he recognized a pained cry. Alarmed, he turned on his heel to see that the man currently under the whip had a familiar shock of blonde hair.

Dandelion.

He stood frozen in alarm as the whipping progressed, Dandelion’s shoulders shaking as the cane fell over his back. _No wonder he fears canes_ , Geralt thought, his stomach twisting with guilt. If he had arrived only a few minutes earlier he could have easily paid the tax, letting Dandelion slip away scot free, but as it were, all he could do was listen in horror as Dandelion screamed.

Finally it ended and the bard was released from the stocks.

Dandelion stumbled down the steps, off the platform, and away from the crowd, many of whom laughed and jeered at him. But he kept his head high, shoulders back, as he adjusted his clothes, pulling a jacket on over his abused skin as he walked.

“Dandelion!” Geralt caught up with him at the edge of the square and he turned and gave Geralt a brilliant smile.

“I’m sorry, Dandelion,” he said. “I wasn’t here soon enough to stop it.”

Dandelion shook his head. “It’s not your fault, Geralt,” he promised. “I rarely pay the full tax, it doesn’t seem worth it when my job involves whips anyway.”

Geralt didn’t know what to say to that.

Instead he followed behind the poet, letting him chatter on easily, ignoring Geralt’s attempts to ask if he was alright or if he needed anything. Instead he told Geralt the latest gossip from the brothel and pointed out various buildings as they passed, telling Geralt about people who lived there or what kinds of food they served.

They were headed into a rundown area of town, where the poorest of citizens lived. Geralt rarely had reason to visit there, and he found himself pulling up his hood, not wanting to be stared at for his strange appearance.

Dandelion shook his head. “You’ll stand out more with your hood on, Geralt,” he said, tugging the Witcher’s hood back. “There. No one will pay you any mind like that.”

Then he suddenly turned off the main road, disappearing down a small path. “Here we are!” he said brightly, pushing open one of the doors. “Mind your head.”

They wove up the rickety stairs to the top floor, where Dandelion produced a key from his pocket and unlocked it before entering.

Geralt found himself entranced by Dandelion’s home. It was a small room, with little more than a bed and a fireplace. Papers scattered every available surface, covered with spindly hand writing and musical notations.

A diploma hung on the wall above the mantle. “Julian Alfred Pankraz-” Geralt read aloud. “Is this you?”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t know Oxenfurt admitted half-elves.”

“They don’t knowingly.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “They search their students for brands,” he said.

“I wasn’t branded then,” Dandelion said shortly, clearly not wanting to continue the conversation. He tugged off his jacket and rolled his shoulders with a wince.

“Do you need cream?” Geralt asked, glad for a quick change of subject.

For a moment it seemed that the bard was going to say no, then he shrugged. “Why not? Will you help?”

Geralt nodded.

The bard produced a jar from under his bed, then sat at the chair while Geralt stood behind him. The Witcher carefully lifted his shirt, wincing at the angry red lines on his back. They hadn’t seemed to have broken the skin - which was a minor miracle - but he could imagine how painful it must be.

Dandelion sat perfectly still as Geralt worked the balm into his skin, mindful not to press too hard on any of the welts. “Why don’t you pay the full tax?” Geralt asked finally.

“I have other things I’d rather spend the coin on, that’s all,” said Dandelion.

Geralt bit his lip, tempted to pull out his coin purse and tell Dandelion not to worry about the damned tax ever again. But he knew Dandelion too well, the poet was proud, and offering him money outright would only offend him. He’d have to be creative and find a way to sneak it to him, or at least make him feel as though he’d earned it somehow. Until then, he’d have to do something else to take care of Dandelion, after what he’d been through, Geralt wasn’t about to just leave him.

Lowering Dandelion’s shirt carefully over the treated wounds, he said, “You mentioned that tavern we passed? How about supper?”

Dandelion’s face lit up. “Oooh! I never turn down a meal, Geralt!”


End file.
